


Scars

by Bree_Maggs



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loki/reader - Freeform, Magic, One-Shot, Panic Attacks, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bree_Maggs/pseuds/Bree_Maggs
Summary: Loki sees the scars she's kept so carefully hidden for the first time. The fall out is not what she expected.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mentions of self-harm, panic attacks, and suicide attempt. One-shot.

Scars

I had almost, _almost_ forgotten about the scars. I had forgotten long enough to put the swimsuit on. I had forgotten long enough to walk outside in it. I’d forgotten long enough to greet him with a smile full of sunshine when I found him standing in the garden; unexpected, but never unwelcome. And at first, he returned it and pulled me in for a hug. After a few moments I pulled away and he did the same.

And then the moment changed.

I saw it in his eyes first. The light in them faded and confusion flooded them. I saw the slight droop in his brows as the confusion spread from his eyes to his entire face. His lips thinned into a hard, flat line.

It took me only a second to follow his gaze to my arms, my stomach, and then my thighs. Realization was a swift, heavy boulder that dropped into my stomach.

_The fucking scars._

They were years old at this point. Most days they were a reminder of how far I had come. A twisted sort of milestone for myself. Most days, I remembered to hide them after I gave in and carefully examined their patterns. But today...

Today had been different.

It was _finally_ hot outside. Hot enough to swim. Hot enough to tan. And I had been planning on being by myself, making the scars a nonissue. And Loki... he had a way of putting me at ease. I felt... _normal_ when I was with him. All of my crazy, all of my emotions, all of my thoughts... Everything calmed down and quieted in my brain when he was close to me. I felt _safe_ with him.

But today...

I couldn’t read the emotions on his face. Anger? Disgust? Sympathy? Pity? A mask had fallen into place almost immediately after he’d seen them. I didn’t know what he was thinking. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to stick around for the fall out. I wouldn’t take another rejection well.

I started backpedaling, some kind of excuse tumbling from my lips. I don’t know. I just had to get out. I stumbled down the path and into the house, slamming and locking the door behind me. I raced through the front room, heading towards the back bedroom that I called my own. I wouldn’t feel safe until I was being devoured by my blankets, free to let the dark thoughts consume me.

I should have known better.

Mere locks and doors could never keep him out. My breath caught in my throat and the tears that were beading on my lashes quivered before finally giving in and falling down my face. He was standing in the middle of my room. I tried to choke the sob down, I really did. But the anxiety was quickly becoming all consuming. A full blown panic attack was imminent.

“I...”

That one syllable almost broke me. It was nothing of substance, but it was surely the beginning of the end. I’d heard it all before. And it always started with an, “I.” _I can’t do this with you. I can’t deal with your baggage. I don’t want to deal with your problems._

“Do-don’t,” I managed to get out, taking half a step backwards.

I couldn’t bear to hear what he was going to say. I pressed my hands against my mouth, desperately trying to keep the sobs at bay, but this made it hard to breath. I pulled them from my lips and instead dug my nails into my arms in an attempt to ground myself.

It didn’t matter. The panic gripped me hard and I could feel the walls closing in. My chest tightened and ached. I felt like I was dying and for one, small, shameful moment, I wished I would. At least then it would all be over.

Logically, I knew this was a panic attack. Logically, I knew I would survive it. Logic has no hold or sway in the midst of a panic attack.

At this point, I was beyond the situation. Loki disappeared. The room disappeared. Everything disappeared until it was just me. Just me and my anxiety. I clawed at my arms, fighting the attack. I tried to slow my breathing, to bring it back into some kind of recognizable rhythm.

I wasn’t sure if I was still standing or not, so lost was I. I vaguely realized that I must have been because I felt myself teeter and start to drop. But there was no impact. Not that I would have felt it anyway.

But then I was feeling. There were arms around me. They wrapped me up and tightened around me. I was awkwardly cradled in a lap. There was a chin pressing against the crown of my head.

And almost as if _magic_ , my breathing finally slowed to something close to normal. My hands loosened their hold on my arms. My chest relaxed and the tension I’d been holding in my body released. I’d never felt anything like it. And as the clouds in my head began to clear, I understood what had happened. It had felt like magic because it _was_ magic. Loki’s magic. I wanted to be angry and frustrated that he could manipulate me like that, but all I could feel was peace.

“Stop, I mumbled against his shoulder.

“I would, but it would be counterproductive at this point.”

Infuriating god. I sighed loudly, accepting my fate. I had no other choice. I was a slave to the calm he was pumping through me. It was making me sleepy. And I was so comfortable...

“If you’ve recovered from your ordeal, I would ask that you answer some questions for me.” His voice was quiet, barely a whisper. But I heard him. I sighed again.

I nodded. There was no escaping now. I waited for him to ask me something, anything, but it dawned on me that, even though he’d asked, he was waiting for me to open up to him. I didn’t know where to start. It had been a very, very long time since I’d opened myself up to someone. It was opening a door to hurt and disappointment.

I gently reminded myself that he was here. He had helped me through my anxiety attack. Granted, his methods could use some work, but he’d done his best to help me.  
I took a deep breath and I started talking. I didn’t know if any of it made sense, but once I started, I had a hard time stopping. I bared my soul to him, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be too much. That it wouldn’t scare him away.

I told him about how much I hated myself. I’d been made fun of for being different. Being different had been unavoidable; it was a product of my birth. Being a witch in a mortal education system had been hard. But I’d endured, if barely. By the age of fourteen, my magic was out of control due to my emotions and I was pulled from school.

I started cutting myself when I was fifteen and I was finally able to establish some control over my magic. The release I got from cutting was... euphoric. It was control. It was healing. Having control of my emotions extended directly to my magic.

But the control didn’t last. The longer I cut, the less I felt the control. It had lost its novelty. As I fought to regain that control, I was pulling anything remotely sharp across my skin. I started falling into a downward spiral. I secluded myself. By seventeen, my magic wasn’t the only thing out of control anymore.

I didn’t want to live anymore. Cutting became less of a habit and more of a dangerous game of roulette. How far would I go this time? Would I finally cut myself deep enough to bleed out? Would I finally surrender to death?

After one close call at the age of nineteen, I landed myself in a witch’s coven dedicated to mental healing. There I made friends. I learned control. And most importantly, I started to heal. I learned coping skills that didn’t involve spilling my blood.

It was the best thing for me. I had been on an upward trend ever since. I hadn’t cut myself in years, despite the fact that the temptation did sneak up on me from time to time. I met with a witch doctor once a month to regulate medications and meditation routines. I met with the coven every six weeks as a sort of counseling session.

I talked to Loki until my throat felt raw. I told him things I had never told anyone before. And he listened to it all. When I finally stopped talking, I waited for the fall out. I waited for the disgust. Or worse, the pity.

But it never came. What did come was a whisper soft kiss across my surprised lips. And laughter. He laughed at me. Probably the at the ridiculous expression I was sure was on my face.

“You have been so brave for so long. There is no shame in asking for help when you need it,” he told me softly. As he spoke, his arms tightened ever so slightly.

I could only nod, agreeing with him.

“I am pleased that you are comfortable enough with me to share your struggles with me. And I am grateful that you are still here to do so.”

I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. As he kept talking, I was beginning to accept that there was no other shoe. His nice words weren’t meant to soften a blow. He meant everything he was saying. That made my eyes well up with tears again.

“Shhh,” he entreated, rocking me gently. “I can’t promise that it will always all be all right, but for now, it is.” He swept a kiss across my brow and started humming to me softly.

And for me, that was enough. I gave in. I admitted defeat at the hands of the Norse god. I was at his mercy.  
I was exactly where I belonged.


End file.
